Doctor R—s H

"Stop!" says the muse "your satire, dealing hand, " Nor modest characters disgraceful brand, " Deal round the lash on empty pamper'd pride, " And teach presumption ignorance to hide, " O'er plodding knaves devote the scorging rod, " And bid them fear the just revengeful God"

Enough, my muse; I own thy errless sway, And ready still thy dictates I obey— Worth should be sacred, merit should be rais'd, For this alone our Doctor, should be prais'd, Then take, my friend the praise of one unknown, That but commends, for virtue's sake alone.